


tomorrow’s fool

by julek



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Soft and immensely self-indulgent, Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: ”Tell me about your dream.”A rainy and very lazy morning at Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	tomorrow’s fool

Rain patters against the glass windows, the soft thrum the only sound across the quiet halls. The snow hasn’t come, not yet — late autumn still clinging to the trees and the skies, the peaks of the Blue Mountains still visible, light brown and comforting. More so, as time goes on. 

It’s early — though Vesemir would argue it’s already late — and the keep seems still, taking a minute to breathe before spinning on its axis again. The stone walls have soaked up the warmth from the hearth throughout the night, keeping the room mellow and cozy, blankets and furs strewn across the bed and floor with playful care. 

Geralt smiles against the curve of Eskel’s shoulder, mindlessly clinging to the last bits of his dream before he’s fully awake. It’s an easy thing, an edge of peacefulness to it — he’s watching an ovenbird build its nest. The branch doesn’t hang too low for predators to claw at it, nor too high for the sun to be too unforgiving. The bird seems excited, chirping as it rummages around the nest, plucking at the straw. _Making it comfortable,_ Geralt thinks, _for its family_. Finally, content with the nest, its brown wings flutter and it hops onto it. A beam of sunlight filters through the trees, washing over the little bird and its new home. Geralt smiles, and moves on. 

Eskel stirs slowly, making a soft sound of displeasure at being awoken so early, so soon. Placidly, Geralt opens his eyes, letting go of the bird and the Path ahead of him. Instead, he presses his mouth to Eskel’s shoulder, smiling when the Witcher groans and hides his head under the pillows. 

“‘S too early.” His voice is cracked and his words are muffled. 

“I know.” Geralt traces a line down Eskel’s arm. “Tell me what you were dreaming about.”

Slowly — and in Geralt’s opinion, too dramatically — Eskel turns around, facing Geralt. His eyes aren’t fully open, brow furrowed, and there’s a crease from the pillow on his cheek, joining the pink scars. He’s beautiful. 

“Hmm,” he says, testing the words. “‘T was… quiet. Vesemir and I were making bread.”

Geralt hums, pulling closer to Eskel’s chest, his hands seeking his warmth. 

“It was a bit weird. We weren’t here, but it felt like I was at home.” He squints, as if trying to picture it once more. “My dream kept telling me it was home, even if I didn’t recognize the kitchen. Vesemir said something that made me laugh.”

“What did he say?”

Eskel lets out a small laugh. “I can’t quite remember— I think he wanted to put something ridiculous into the dough. Like, catnip, or something. It was weird.”

Muffled against Eskel’s arm, Geralt huffs a laugh. “That does sound weird.”

“Hmm.”

The fire crackles. It’s weird, to Geralt, how a room can look so different depending on the light presenting it. Eskel’s room has always felt like home — even if somewhat empty at times — and Geralt could recall it from memory alone. The shelf over the fireplace where their medallions rest all winter, away from the Path; the chest at the end of their bed with all of Eskel’s clothes, well-worn and infinitely soft. There are no chairs, no tables — only their bed, massive and imposing, in the middle of the room, all the furs they could find on top of it. It looks cozy and inviting when sunlight pours in through the window, warm and intimate in the firelight. The grey light that rain and snow offer paints it with a different kind of softness — touches every edge and crevice with care, with patience. 

Geralt can’t choose a favorite. 

“I love it when it rains,” Eskel says, suddenly. “Especially when we can just stay here and enjoy it.”

Geralt smiles. Eskel’s hands have found their way to his waist, wrapping around him with ease. He presses his head back to the crook of Eskel’s neck, finds the spot behind his ear where his skin is tender and sensitive, lets his nose trace his sharp jawline. 

“We could go back to sleep,” Geralt murmurs, brushing his knuckles over Eskel’s hands. They’re rough and dry, small scars falling over themselves in white lines.

“We could,” Eskel whispers against Geralt’s hair. “I think I want to enjoy the peace and quiet a while longer, though.”

With a hum, Geralt settles more comfortably against Eskel’s chest, in an attempt to bury himself under the blankets and curl up into Eskel’s heart. It’d be lovely, he thinks; it’d probably be a big room, bigger than the Great Hall. It’d be golden — not painted nor made out of gold — just glowing from within. It’d feel like coming home, like warm meals and worn sweaters. 

“Will you make bread for me?” He asks quietly. 

“Of course.” Eskel presses a kiss to his temple. “There’s no catnip, I’m afraid.” 

Geralt snorts. “Okay.”

He _can_ bake bread — and more often than not it turns out quite decent — but he likes it when Eskel makes it for him. It tastes fuller, richer, even with the same ingredients. _It’s love,_ Eskel had told him one time, over wine and olives. And it is, Geralt knows. He’s seen it firsthand — the way Eskel seems to lose himself whenever he gets the chance to cook for someone else. It’s the excitement in his eyes and the mirth that spills from his smile, and no matter what he makes, it’s always, without fault, magnificent. _It’s love._

Geralt traces Eskel’s nails with his finger. His scent is all around Geralt, the subtle notes of sweat and spices pleasant on his nose. There’s that faint trace of magic, too, and it makes Geralt’s skin tingle. 

“Tell me about your dream.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully. It’s already faded, but the comforting feeling still lingers. “It was nice,” he says. Now he’s the one squinting, chasing after the memory. “Sunny. Can’t remember… I was on the Path. Something was happening. It seemed important.”

“Funny, how dreams always seem so urgent, and then we can’t remember them. Bit unfair.”

Geralt hums. “I was… happy. Pleased, like I could stop worrying. Like something had turned out okay, in the end.”

Eskel’s arms tighten around him for a second. “That’s nice.”

“Hmm.” It looks like it’ll be pouring down all day, and Geralt silently hopes so. Maybe they’ll be able to convince Vesemir to stay in for the day, do some indoor tasks. Maybe they will. He turns on his side, and presses a kiss to Eskel’s jaw. 

“How very romantic of us,” Eskel says with a laugh, “to lounge around in bed like an old married couple. We’ve gone soft.”

“Maybe.” Geralt presses a kiss to the broken dimple in Eskel’s cheek. “Maybe we’ve been like this all along. What do the poets always say? _We’re all fools in love_?”

Eskel smiles. “In love, are you?”

“Regrettably,” Geralt says with a grin, though he doesn’t mean it — couldn’t if he tried. 

With a wicked grin, Eskel pounces on Geralt, startling a laugh out of him. Thunder rumbles over their heads and into their chests as they wrestle, the blankets a tangled mess at their thighs. Eskel’s cheeks are pink with exertion and his hair keeps falling on his face, and Geralt’s torn between brushing it back or pinning Eskel to the bed. He does both. 

“I’m too awake now,” he protests under Geralt’s weight. “So much for my peace and quiet, Wolf.” 

Geralt grins. “I’m sorry.”

“Not even remotely, are you,” Eskel grumbles and slumps back against the pillows, a defeated smile on his lips, and _oh_ , he’s too beautiful under the morning light. 

“My most sincere condolences,” he says, pressing a kiss to Eskel’s nose, his jaw, his cheek. “You’ll just have to watch the rain with me.”

Eskel rolls his eyes, but when Geralt presses a kiss to his mouth, he melts into it. 

“Okay,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips. He smiles. “That, I can do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! find me on [tumblr](http://julek.tumblr.com/).


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